by Jane Merkley
No sooner had she registered the punch then Byrone launched himself at her, ramming his shoulder into her gut and lifted her off her feet across his neck.
Does he find me incompetent and helpless? She wondered balefully. She brought her left knee up. Her left elbow and left knee moved as if to connect, but Byrone’s face got caught in between. She laughed sadistically as she felt a satisfying crunch at her knee cap. Byrone roared and he momentarily froze as his body attempted to catch back up after the pain. Altarn tossed her hips and rolled agilely off his shoulders, landing on both feet with both fists up as if they would move into a boxing match next.
Recovered and angry, Byrone lunged again. Altarn had been collecting the blood in her mouth and spat it in his face. He turned his head and Altarn stepped sideways as he barreled through. As he passed, Altarn drove her knee into the nerve running parallel down the outside of his thigh. It felt so good to hit him, to drive into him the pain and anger he had delivered upon her.
Byrone’s leg collapsed, but he remained standing, if unstable, and turned a fist into her stomach.
The force knocked Altarn’s breath clean from her. She hit the ground on her back, choking for air as she attempted to gain her feet again, but she looked at Byrone to find him with one knee in the dirt, cupping his bleeding nose in one hand.
And then he laughed. A dark, thick laugh full of many things.
“I...” His shoulders heaved up and down in anxious breaths. “I underestimated you.”
Altarn tried not to flare too brightly at the compliment. For all she knew, he would turn it against her later. She spit blood out of her mouth and watched it curl dirt into itself. She felt around for broken teeth but they were all intact, however her cheek was torn up like a dog ravaged steak.
Byrone was clearly not making any moves to continue their... whatever it was. Altarn concentrated on filling her lungs again with punch-robbed air. Eventually she could take deep, refreshing breaths of setting sun, feeling more alive than she had for a long time, despite she was still spitting blood. She had exhausted her furies toward Byrone and it felt as if a heavy poison had been leeched from her. His threat was still there, but she felt much better about making him earn it.
She looked up because Byrone was standing in front of her. She eyed him suspiciously and spit blood into the dirt. Her blood was still mildly splattered about his cheeks. The pain on her own face only fueled her fire.
“Come,” he said stiffly. “Follow me.”
He turned from her. She eyed his departure, but he stopped and turned around, waiting for her to follow.
Suspicious as always but reassured that she still had her knife, she climbed out of her shell of armor and fell in step beside Byrone, though, remained guarded against his strange turn of generosity after such a beating.
Wordlessly, they walked the road to the end where the doors into the castle were already open. These doors were always left open, Altarn discovered, when Ruidenthall’s Lord was away, in semblance that Ruidenthall would always wait for his return.
Byrone was remarkably more chipper and sucked in a lung full of autumn air and let it out with a satisfied smile. “That was refreshing.” Silence again. Longer, as if Byrone was unwilling but still obligated to say what came next. “I’m heading to my mineral baths, if you care to join. They are artificial, but they’re the best thing I got until I can make it to Gaynord again. Gaynord was nice, remember?”
Altarn didn’t want to remember, because that would remind her of a time that she knew this man not to be a land thieving bastard. To know him as otherwise hurt too much now, because he had been so kind to her for no reason until he found out who she was. But she did want a sulfur soak to cure her muscles to prevent soreness tomorrow.
He took her into a chamber that was steaming from large copper bowls in the floor cloying with the bad egg smell of sulfur. The intensity of the smell burned her eyes. Byrone pointed to a small chamber to the side and in it she found towels and cotton robes. She undressed and slid into one, throwing her sweaty soiled clothes into a wicker basket. She then grabbed a small hand towel and stuffed it in her mouth between her teeth and cheek still bleeding from Byrone’s punch. He had not apologized and she wasn’t about to, either. Equal acceptance of each other. It was a blurred line, but it was the best they could achieve without turning that line into a sharp edge they might push back and forth in attempts to cut the other.
Byrone was in the largest bowl and was sunk up to his neck. He had already wiped most of the blood from his face, but he kept a ginger hold on a towel over his nose and his eyes were closed. She didn’t doubt she broke it. She almost felt bad by the well of moisture under his eyelids as he squeezed them. She slid in opposite him, double securing the sash closed in front of her.
They were silent for some time. Altarn slid further down into the water.
“I had my doubts with your musicians.” Byrone’s voice came so suddenly it startled her and she wondered if she had fallen asleep briefly. “But you have proven me wrong.” He spoke with as little movement of his jaw as possible.
“That would be the second thing I proved you wrong at today.” Altarn spoke around the hand towel still in her mouth and the teasing tone she was trying to achieve failed, so it came out mostly bland. “Are you sure you are competent enough to lead an army?”
He scuffed gently at this and moved on. “I see that your musicians also do more than just cause your shredders to dance.”
“They boost morale and make it more difficult for the enemy’s orders to be heard over the noise.”
“It is a strange way to fight.” Byrone mused for a moment. “It must have been a female that thought of it.”
Altarn smiled at this, because it was a compliment. “It was the same female that won Blindvar’s Old Wars.”
They fell into silence again, soaking up what the pool was offering.
“This week,” Altarn started again, “I will show each of my weapons in a subsidized manner so we can figure out how your soldiers will best fit in. Shorns must be at the very front.” Altarn picked apart her ebony hair from its braid and sunk the back of her head into the hot water with a sigh. Gaynord or not, this was good.
A gentle patter of bare feet came up behind Altarn. A servant set down a platter of food next to her head at the edge of tub. She pulled the bloody hand towel out of her mouth and ate with hungry relish, until the salt from the sausage started to burn her torn cheek.
“You mean how best your soldiers will fit in with mine.”
Altarn rolled her eyes and tried instead for some bread, chewing slowly. She was going to move passed his comment. “Where do you think is best to fight from once the enemy crosses the borders, pending they arrive where we are stationed?” She spoke with a full mouth but was long passed caring about the indecency of it. She hoped Byrone was offended by it. It tasted slightly of blood.
Byrone swallowed his own food. “We’ll ride out tomorrow and I’ll show you. It’s closer to the city than I want but the land is advantageous for us.”
“Heard anything more from your scouts?”
“They haven’t moved. I’m beginning to wonder if they haven’t stopped permanently. If they don’t move by the end of the month, we will go to them. If anything, we’ll have the element of surprise, at least, if not the advantage of the landscape.”
“I wonder what the army wants.” Altarn watched her long hair swirl in front of her across the water like black ribbons. “If they wanted land, they would have either conquered Luthsinia or marched here already. Hopefully they find what they want and leave.”
“If conflict were only that easy.”
Byrone had finished his meal and was lounged back again with the towel over his nose. Altarn wasn’t bleeding anymore so she left her hand towel on the side of the tub.
The warmth and the sulfur was making her lethargic and sleepy. She was more exhausted than she had a right to be and was strangely jovial to have just been punched by Byr
one and then to be sharing a bath with him in good company. It was as if they were an old quarreling couple that just needed to vent to the other half their complaints before they could move on to dinner.
“Why do all Ruids have a tattoo?”
He didn’t respond right away, his eyes still closed as if in deep concentration. But his deep, calming breathing gave away the small shudder of pain.
“We are born with it.”
“That would make a nice line for some romanticized hero poetry.”
“The poem is called, Blood First by Jerim Pesdain, if you care. The tattoos are given so early in childhood that they might as well have gotten them while still in the womb.” He held his breath. Removing the towel, he sunk under the surface. He emerged and replaced the towel. “A long, long time ago when Endendre was still broken into, like, eleven different states, Ruidenthall was economically stable and was on such a system that medical and schooling were free, if you were born and lived as a citizen in Ruidenthall.
“This was a great system, until the other states heard about it and suddenly, more people than what the census originally accounted for were claiming citizenship and began taking advantage of Ruidenthall’s benefits. Because of this, the flow of money to fund medical and school was depleting rapidly. And so the king at that time – he was one of the rare, wise ones – set out a decree that everyone who claimed they were Ruid, must get a tattoo on their right arm in a specifically identifiable pattern. Tattooists were sanctioned to perform the task along with a genealogist who would question each patron to prove they could track their ancestry to Ruidenthall. If they got a tattoo, then they could take the benefits of medical and schooling. This whittled out most of the problem. The same economical system is still in effect to a point, but people still get the tattoo now to show their pride for being Ruid. You have to be born in Ruidenthall and a Ruid priest has to be present for the birth. It really is a big deal.”
He finished and they both sat in soothing silence for a short while.
“I wish there was a priest at the birth of the last guy that courted me.” Altarn wasn’t sure why she said it. The soak was much too relaxing and she was feeling much too good with herself for having broke Byrone’s nose. The mood between them was almost casual, so it was seemed as if she was encouraged to keep it so. “Then maybe the fear of god could have been instilled into him and he would have treated women better.”
“He abused you?”
“He would have gotten a beating of his life to astound his father if he had. No. He just had the audacity to proposition me into his bed and when I refused, he said that he needed to ride the horse before he bought it so he can find out first if it limps.”
Byrone looked thoughtful for a good moment. “Well… you should have agreed,” he said. “You should have then jumped on his back and told him to ‘giddy up!’”
Altarn laughed then, a laughter pulled from the depths of her soul that had been slowly compressed there. It felt good, it felt healthy, and she looked up and caught a brief, real smile from Byrone who was still nursing his nose with the hot towel.
“I like this.” Altarn’s chuckles quieted and she dunked her head backward into the water. “We should have our war councils in the baths.”
“We could put a map on that wall.” Byrone pointed. “I think the hardest part would be getting our council members into a robe.”
Altarn had a brief image of Perseth in a bathing robe. Revolted, she splashed water in her face to cleanse her mind.
Byrone released a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, there are things that must be conducted out of the baths. Like, making preparations for the dead.”
The truth of it stung Altarn, and the remainder of her mirth evaporated with the steam.
“Good night, then. I suppose I’ll see you around.” He stood and water sluiced off him as he stepped out. His robe was folded down to his waist and bunched muscle rippled across his back.
Altarn looked away as he left, disgusted that she had been staring.
Priest Herten’s Prayer
Their tunnel opened out of a hill twenty miles from Niesh toward the direction of Ruidenthall. The exit was closed over by a rock slab. Because of the angle, it wasn’t hard for two of them to push from the inside and tip it over.
They all squinted at the sunlight, having been in fire-lit darkness for twenty miles on foot. But now that they were out of the tunnel, they would have to make haste to stay ahead of the army Gildeon reassured them was heading this way, stalled only by their confusion at their underground travel.
Lorn had made it out of the tunnel on her own. Her eyes had turned a frigid black and her movements were halting, as if she was trying to fight bolting in a different direction. Then randomly, her strength was suddenly zapped from her and she fell to the dirt. Jaryd found himself immediately at her side before he had even meant to be.
“Are you alright?”
“Huilian… steals… from me…” She was supporting herself upright with her arms, but they were shaking.
Jaryd reached under her and picked her up in his arms. She grabbed the front of his uniform and his heart made a flip flop like it did every time she did that, like he was her life line as long as she held on. She closed her eyes. Her face was so pale, so tired and hurt. Jaryd held her closer.
They were able to stay ahead of the army for two days, just about ready to cross into Ruidenthall. Priest Herten was the only member of their party with a horse, but the old horse plodded along even slower than Gildeon, who had the shortest legs.
“Fooorlooorn…”
Lorn stopped suddenly, and turned directly around and dashed back the way they had come.
“Lorn!” Jaryd ran after her. He caught up quickly and wrapped both arms around her, bringing her to the ground so he was on top of her.
She screamed and kicked, clawing at the ground, at him.
“He’s here!” she cried. “He’s calling for me!”
“You will not go, Lorn!” Jaryd restrained her arms, worrying if she’d use that abnormal strength that came in bouts on him. “He will kill you if you run to him.”
“Death is better than this!” Huilian’s strength filled her, and she shoved Jaryd backward.
He landed on his back in the dirt and leaves, and scrambled to his feet as Lorn took off running again. But he was quicker. He grabbed and swung her around, physically dragging her screaming body away from the direction she was trying to escape.
Priest Herten heard them approach. He did not know if the army would kill them all, take them all, or take Lorn and leave the rest alone. But one thing for sure, Huilian had to be prevented from gaining the last piece of his soul. Another thing known for sure, Herten was not going to outrun those pursuing quickly behind him.
Miraha’s voice was panicked. “Good Priest, we need to run!”
Herten knew running was futile, and he almost told her that he would stay behind and give them time to flee, but he knew her well enough that she would not let him do that so simply.
“Come on, boy.” Herten kicked Shar’s ribs and the horse snorted. He kicked the horse again and he lurched forward at an awkward trump.
Of course it wasn’t still fast enough. All of them on young spry horses might be quick enough, but they were lacking that. But he had at least shown Miraha he had tried.
He slowed Shar down ever so gently so no one noticed at first. Jaryd had thrown Lorn over his shoulder who was still kicking and screaming as he ran. Soon, Herten had stopped altogether and watched impatiently as everyone gained greater distance from him. Eventually, Miraha noticed and she stopped in a spray of dirt, looking back at him with horror on her face.
“Herten!” she screamed.
But she was too far to run back and stop him in time. Herten turned Shar back around, facing the direction they had just come. Suddenly, the horse perked up, as they were now facing the direction of Ryre.
Herten watched the silver armor burst into view; a glistening maw of de
ath. Herten placed both his palms together, fingers pointing to the heavens.
And he prayed.
A remarkable thing the righteous have, to call upon the powers of heaven and have them answered. Throughout life, one may plead to the gods for fortune, fame, to be healed, to request happiness. Sometimes these are granted. Sometimes they are not. Prayers are not always free. Sometimes the pray’er must give up something to receive something in return. But Herten’s prayer was answered. Because nothing is more sacred than giving your life for the sake of a friend’s.
Gildeon was running but stopped, and turned to find the priest in the midst of prayer atop his horse, Miraha running madly at him as if she would stop that which was already in motion.
Gildeon smiled. “I hear you, Good Priest. I hear your Last Prayer.”
From the depths of Herten’s body a light began to well within him, collecting all that holiness he had maintained and nurtured over his many years of grace. The light gathered in his center. He uttered his last, “Amen,” and the light burst out of him like a spinning disc of glory.
The light sliced into the enemy approaching, stunning them to the ground. The light shook leaves from the trees, turned the earth into a whirlwind.
Miraha turned her back and dropped to her knees, covering her eyes and mouth from the flying dust. The other priestesses did the same. Gildeon stood true, watching on.
Jaryd was too distracted with a thrashing Lorn to see what had happened. Dust filled his mouth and eyes and Lorn thrashed so hard he lost his grip on her. She landed to run again, but he reached back and grabbed her shirt, pulling her back.
She spun intentionally into him, grabbing the knife at his belt and lifted it above her heart.
“NO!”
Jaryd grabbed her wrist tight enough to crush it. She let go, Huilian’s strength seeping out from her. Jaryd spun her into the ground and laid on her, holding her wrists tightly in his hands. She began to cry.